


The Farm Boy

by Dahlia_Moon



Category: Psych
Genre: Community: psychflashfic, Crack, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fusion, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-04
Updated: 2010-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dahlia_Moon/pseuds/Dahlia_Moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlton is sick and dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Farm Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [psychflashfic](http://community.livejournal.com/psychflashfic/) for challenge #8- Bad Day. Also fused (kinda-sorta) with _The Princess Bride_ in where Shawn is Buttercup and Lassie is Westley/The Dread Pirate Roberts.

You're under the covers in the middle of the afternoon, sweating and shivering at the same time. You are long past caring about eating anything as you haven't been able to hold down anything you've eaten all day.

You tried going in to work, as lying in bed when you're sick just seems to make you sicker, but the constant sneezing and coughing was making the Chief annoyed and worried about your germs spreading to others. So she forced you to go home and rest when really the last thing you need is rest. You need something. You need lots of somethings really, but lying around the empty house isn't one of your needs (no matter how much other people may disagree).

So you end up lying restlessly on the couch, a blanket thrown on half-heartedly, and all the shades turned down to make it appear as though it were dark outside to make sleep come easier (though it doesn't work because you've never been able to trick your mind into believing something when it's not true, and it doesn't feel like night; it feels like the hot afternoon that it is and no amount of decorating inside the apartment will change the fact). But short of trying to go back to work and risking the Wrath of Chief Vick, you're stuck where you are for the time being.

\-----

Something is different.

You look down and realize you're not wearing your normal clothes. You look like a poor peasant from one of those medieval movies and the place you're currently inhabiting might as well be from the medieval times- a small hut with straw for a roof and what seems to be an outside workshed with farm animals clucking around.

Suddenly Shawn comes strolling by, decked out in riding pants and booths, a brown cloak around his shoulders.

"Farm boy, polish my horse's saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning."

_Farm boy?!_ Who the hell does Shawn think you are? His own personal servant?

You open your mouth to tell Shawn off, but all that comes out is, "As you wish."

_Wait, I didn't mean to say that._ But your feet lead you toward the horse as though you know exactly what you're doing.

Once you finish polishing the big saddle and lead the horse back into the stables, you come back into the little shack to find Shawn sitting in a wooden chair with his feet up on a block made out of similar material.

He points to his boots and you automatically go to polish them, all the while wondering why the hell you feel compelled to do this. But you can't seem to _not_ not do it.

\-----

"Farm boy," you hear on your way out the door (God, let this be a horrible nightmare from which you'll soon wake up from), "fetch me that pitcher?" and Shawn nods his head toward a red clay pitcher hanging mere inches from his head. The bastard can get it himself if he feels so inclined, but you go toward him anyways and bring down the pitcher into his hands.

"As you wish," you say, the _only_ thing you seem to be capable of saying.

You both stare intently at one another and something seems to shift in that moment. He smiles brightly and your heart clenches in something like anticipation.

\-----

The sky looks gorgeous imbued in a subdued red hue, the sun a small yellow ball in the center; all around you the darkness has settled in but you don't focus on any of that. Your attention is solely on the man in front of you and you can't help leaning in, meeting him halfway, your lips touching in a chaste kiss.

\-----

The kissing seems to happen quite a lot more afterwards.

You'd be doing chores around the farm and Shawn would sneak up on you noiselessly and take your lips by surprise.

Or he'd order you around and smile goofily at you when you replied, "As you wish," taking your face in his hands and kissing you roughly before shooing you off to your tasks.

You want to scowl at him and tell him to do his own damn chores, but more often than not, you find yourself thinking him adorable when he orders you around. (He seems to have developed the habit of asking nicely as well.)

One hot evening, your chaste kisses turn more heated and you feel your desire going straight to the southern parts of your anatomy. Shawn notices quickly, blushing fiercely and moving away a little, and you immediately show your disapproval by growling.

"Um, before this goes any further, I think it should be only right that you ask me to marry you." He's smug, the bastard, probably is even aware of how he has you wrapped around his finger.

You have to take a deep breath before continuing though, and you get out the words somehow. "Will you marry me?"

And his eyes light up his face in happiness and nothing matters anymore. Time stops, along with your heart, and then he whispers yes against your lips and life starts moving forward again.

\-----

The next day, however, brings along with it the realization that you are a poor farm boy with nothing to offer the love of your life so you pack up your belongings to search for your fortune across the sea.

Shawn clings to you, tearful and afraid and you don't want to leave; you don't want to ever leave him, but somehow, you tear yourself away from his arms with the promise to always come for him because this is true love.

With one last kiss to sustain you for God knows how long, you go off toward the horizon.

\-----

The ship you're on is sailing along quite nicely when there's a ruckus on the deck, making you spring out of your bunk and toward the noise.

You get there and see most of your companions slaughtered; a figure all dressed in black wielding a bloodied sword. You're afraid for your life, but you stay still when the masked eyes turn on you.

"Please, please, I need to live."

\-----

You bolt awake then, a noise in your apartment having startled you from your dream, your very weird dream of chasing after a Spaniard, a giant, and a Sicilian who've kidnapped Shawn who was engaged to a horrible prince who didn't love him, and was planning to kill him on their wedding day.

You think the dream must mean something, although you have idea what. (But you're never again letting O'Hara choose a movie single-handedly for group movie night, never again.)

Your chills and fevers seem to have gone away, and though your throat feels raw and sore, and your nose is still runny, you feel oddly rested.

You shuffle slowly into your kitchen, seeing Shawn with his back turned to you and banging your cupboards, looking, presumably, for something.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Shawn turns around, yelps in surprise at you standing in your bathrobe looking all disheveled and sick.

"Oh, you're awake."

"Well, duh, your banging around my kitchen certainly didn't aid in my continuing to be asleep."

He smiles sheepishly in apology, and you go over to the sink, getting some water. You gulp it all down in one swallow and turn to find him standing much closer than he was a few minutes ago.

"I came to see if you were okay. Heard from Jules the Chief made you go home."

You shrug nonchalantly. "I'm awfully sick, you know, might need someone around for the next day or two to make sure I eat and drink lots of fluids."

His mouth forms into a Cheshire grin, bumping into you intentionally, and pressing your backside against the sink. "Oh, you do? Do you have anyone particular in mind?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do: you." Honesty really is the only way to go at this point even though you hate sounding so vulnerable and desperate for his companionship (even though you so very much are). "You know I'm very sick," you repeat because he's looking at your mouth hungrily and running his hands up and down your arms. You might not completely understand your lover yet, but you know when he starts getting perverted thoughts.

"Soooo? I'll get sick too and then we'll have sick, wild monkey sex together."

And with anyone else you'd be disgusted that they'd even suggest such a thing, but it's Shawn, which for some reason makes the suggestion completely okay and hot. You wonder how soon the two of you could start on that sick, wild monkey sex. (The sooner the better, in your opinion.) And you wrap your arms tightly around Shawn's waist, intent on moving him backwards into your bedroom.

This day has rapidly become more tolerable.


End file.
